The Lanyard (Mother's Day)

Billy Collins was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2005. The Lanyard BY BILLY COLLINS The other day I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room, moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist could send one into the past more suddenly— a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid long thin plastic strips into a lanyard, a gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard or wear one, if that’s what you did with them, but that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard. She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, laid cold face-cloths on my forehead, and then led me out into the airy light and taught me to walk and swim, and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard. Here are thousands of meals, she said, and here is clothing and a good education. And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth, and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered, and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp. And here, I wish to say to her now, is a smaller gift—not the worn truth that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-tone lanyard from my hand, I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless, worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Improvisational Gratitude

"Paul Duke once said that praise is the "jazz factor" of faith, that praise is love improvising its answer to love. Praise is love improvising its answer to love. When one is learning to play an instrument, one first has to learn the basic fingering and, with some instruments, the discipline of breath control. First pieces of music are relatively uncomplicated, as one learns to transfer the notes that one sees on the score to the breath and the fingers, and ultimately into simple melodies. Over time the melodies may become more complex, requiring more intricate dexterity and coordination. Some musicians become remarkable technicians, learning to play flawlessly and with great passion. And a few of them will discover a capacity to internalize the score, to sense deeply its ebb and flow, and then to float free of that score, improvising as they go... retaining the theme, but enriching it with their own grace....

When I'm at my best, I can improvise such praise. When I'm at my best, even simple daily occurrences can stir such feelings: the laughter of a young child, a sunset full of orange and yellow, a warm bowl of oatmeal on a crisp autumn morning, safe transit through heavy traffic, an unexpected act of kindness, a pedal note on the organ that makes the windows rattle and my heart stir, a disagreement settled and resolved. When I'm at my best, I can improvise praise and gratitude for such moments.

At other times I find my senses dulled by routines, or my conscious thoughts consumed by those things that cause anxiety, by pettiness and envy, by expectation and demand. In those days I do well simply to follow the score. By "the score," I mean the commands of God for faithfulness, for honesty, for treating others with respect, for demonstrating kindness to my neighbor. Sometimes just following the score seems like burden and demand. And in those days improvisational gratitude seems impossible, at least without some help.

There's an old story about a renowned pianist and composer - a grand one who lived at the beginning of the last century - and a lovely thing that happened at the start of one of his concerts. At this particular concert a woman and her young son came to hear the master play. The young boy had only recently begun his piano lessons, and the mother, wishing to encourage his studies, took him to the concert.

The two were seated just prior to the concert, but the mother spotted a dear friend along the aisle a few rows back and went to speak to her, telling the boy to wait in his seat. But, then, what child likes to sit still? And so seizing the moment of opportunity to explore a bit, the boy made his way down the aisle, through an open curtain in a doorway and disappeared.

The houselights dimmed and the mother returned to her seat, discovering as she did that her son was not in his seat. She began frantically to look all around, not paying attention to the curtains opening on stage. But at the laughter of the audience, she looked, and there, seated at the magnificent Steinway on the stage, was her son, haltingly playing the first song he had learned to play: "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

The mother was horrified, and started to get up; but at that same moment the great pianist himself entered from the other side of the stage, putting his finger to his mouth to still the audience. He moved to the piano and whispered in the boy's ear. The boy kept playing, and then the master reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part to the composition. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a running obbligato. Together the old master and this young novice transformed an awkward moment into a moment of grace, and as they finished playing, the audience broke forth in thunderous applause.

The truth is the melody of gratitude is not always easy. We sometimes play it haltingly; we are sometimes undone by our own pettiness and insecurities. We may at times feel more like humming dirges of lamentation to ourselves. But by grace, sometimes we hear whispers of remarkable encouragement, whispers to us to keep playing. And as we do, in grace God extends and complements our own best efforts...transforms us in ways we had never dreamed possible. That's grace. And when it touches us maybe then we see something that others, like the other nine, miss. We see that life is a gift, that this day is a gift, and that our life's simple melody is never sung a cappella, never played alone, but is always accompanied, richly, fully. And those who are able to see in such a way cannot simply keep moving down the path they've been traveling, because what stirs in them...seeing what they see...is improvisational gratitude and praise. What stirs in them is pure jazz.

Let the music of gratitude play in us, O God. Let it play. Amen.

[from the sermon, "Improvisational Gratitude" by the Rev. Dr. Robert Dunham.]

Amazing and Uncomfortable Grace

It was in the news recently that there is a luxury apartment building in a very fancy housing district in my town and it was discovered that some of the residents of this apartment building were actually on public assistance. They were what we used to call welfare folks. Well, when that news came out, the homeowners in that very fashionable section of town were outraged. They didn’t want their property values coming down so they demanded and got a public hearing. I watched a little of it on the news and the first person to go to the microphone was a young mother with a baby on her hip. Her story was that when she got pregnant, her boyfriend took the car and left her. Left her with nothing. After the baby was born she managed to get a job as a maid in one of the local motels and if she didn’t have the apartment she couldn’t have the job, and if she didn’t have the job she couldn’t feed the baby. And she begged for the assistance to continue. The next person to the microphone was a homeowner who said that he and his wife had poured their life savings into their home and they wanted their investment protected. He turned and looked at the young mother with the baby and he said, “I understand how you feel, but I earned mine and you’re going to have to earn yours.” Well, when you have experienced grace, you can never look another human being in the face again and say, “I earned mine, you’re going to have to earn yours,” because everything we have is a gift of God. Everything is grace. Everything.

[Tom Long, http://www.30goodminutes.org/csec/sermon/long_4902.htm]

Forget the Duck!

Two young children were visiting their grandparents for the summer. Johnny was given his first slingshot. He practiced shooting in the woods, but he missed everything he aimed at.

As he returned to his Grandma's back yard, however, he spied her pet duck. It wasn't the only duck she kept, but it was her favorite. On an impulse, he took aim and let it fly. This time he didn't miss. His stone struck and killed the duck.

The boy panicked. He didn't mean to hurt the bird - he was even sure he would miss! But he had killed it. His panic grew to desperation and he hid the duck in the woodpile, only to look up and see his sister watching him. Sally had seen it all, but she said nothing to her grandparents.

After lunch that day Grandma said, "Sally, let's wash the dishes."

Sally said, "Johnny told me he wanted to help in the kitchen today. Didn't you, Johnny?" She looked straight at him and whispered, "Remember the duck!" So Johnny did the dishes.

Later, Grandpa asked if the children wanted to go fishing. Grandma said, "I'm sorry, but I need Sally to help make supper." Sally smiled and said, "That's all taken care of, Grandma. Johnny wants to do it." Again she whispered, "Remember the duck!" So Johnny stayed while Sally went fishing.

Johnny did both his chores and Sally's for several days, until, finally, he could stand it no longer. He confessed to Grandma that he'd killed the duck.

His Grandma looked at him and said, "I know, Johnny." She gave him a big hug and added, "I was standing at the window and saw the whole thing. But because I love you, I forgave you. I just wondered how long you would let Sally make a slave of you."

Johnny's Grandmother was more ready to forgive than he was even to ask for forgiveness. We, too, are surrounded by more grace than we may realize. But a disturbing inner voice often whispers, "Remember the duck! Remember the duck!" Some people are so busy being enslaved by this inner voice that they will never allow themselves to be forgiven.

Maybe it's time to forget the duck! Forget the duck...and be free.

[Story found on Steve Goodier's Spiritual Support System website, lectionary reading for March 9, 2008)